


goodbye stranger

by cirque_de_reves (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel Fluff, Destiel Oneshot, Destiel and music, Destiel makes breakfast, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:24:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cirque_de_reves
Summary: this is another round of Deancas Music Fics™ and I hope you like it! it features one of my very favorite songs, Goodbye Stranger by Supertramp, and some slow-dancing, and some burned af eggs :)) enjoy, loves!





	goodbye stranger

**Author's Note:**

> Dean and Cas! My sweet little children! Let's take this moment to realize how sweet and childlike they truly are. I tried to write them here like I imagine they would be on a day in which they don't have any monsters to fight, which is nice, because they deserve a break. This is fluffy af I can't even take it gotta blast my babes :,)

 

 

“Dean, what is a ‘darude sandstorm’ and what exactly sets it apart from others of its kind? I was going to ask you earlier, but I found an encyclopedia in the bookroom and read up on the subject of dust-storms - particularly in Arabian culture - and there are only two types as far as I could tell, and neither feature any sort of discourteousness.” Castiel teeters dizzily into a kitchen stool and adjusts his trenchcoat so that it ribbons over the side of it like a khaki waterfall around him, and twiddles his thumbs in his lap, waiting patiently for a response.

“Woah, buddy,” Dean over-annunciates, holding up his hand and spreading his fingers in a gesture like _slow down._ “First off, how about a ‘hello’, or a ‘good morning’ or something? Second, where did you even hear that name? We’ve got to get you into some real music, man. I might have to kick you out of the bunker if you’re going to start listening to that…modernist-pop-electronica-dubstep shit.” He brings his hand back down to the counter, and picks up a blindingly pink rubber spatula. He hesitantly pokes it into a flaky grey frying pan full of scrambled eggs and jerks it around like he knows what he’s doing; he doesn’t. He’s never made anything before that hasn’t come out of a box, but maybe the more normal he acts the more normal he’ll _be._ Fake it till you make it.

(And he’s not going to deny himself a gourmet breakfast, not when there are fresh eggs in the fridge.)

He sets the frying pan back down pointedly, both because he’s not sure what to with it at this point (not that he ever did) and to re-tie his linty, incomprehensibly-soft dead guy robe over his boxers. Cas zones out staring at Dean’s belly intensely and unblinkingly for the entire twenty seconds he does this for, and then suddenly breaks into speech, like this awkwardly un-peculiar action has allowed him to revel in the realization that _darude sandstorm_ is in fact not a sandstorm at all, but rather an overrated thing that young people pump their sweaty fists to.

“Real music?” He asks timidly.

Dean chuckles and jiggles the pan again before sliding it back onto the burner and spreading his hands in explanation. “Yeah, man. You ever hear anything off of _Breakfast in America_?”

Cas purses his lips and plays with a pepper shaker. “We’re…having…breakfast in America.” The fancy little perforated jar slips from his fingers and he reaches for its mess on the linoleum, but Dean is already there. He smirks, and flinging the container back haphazardly into a cupboard, mutters that he’ll sweep it up later, and grabs Cas’s hand.

“Not what I meant, bud. Get up, I wanna show you something,” He tugs Castiel off his bench and drags him into the dining room, to one of the display cases there. There’s an ancient black sound system on top of it; he takes the angel’s hand and curls his fingers around the plastic handle. “This is a _stereo_.”

“ _Stereo_.” Cas repeats. His eyes light up and he pats the webbed speakers proudly. _B_ _aby in a trenchcoat._

“Wait till you hear what it does.” Dean grins giddily and grabs some unidentifiable tape off a whole shelf of them.

Cas grabs for it. “What does it do?”

Dean yanks it back behind him and shuffles back to the kitchen. “Mm-mm-mm,” he shakes the CD at his side without looking back. “Bring that, and you’ll see.”

Cas scampers along, heaving the stereo behind him.

 

***

 

“Okay, so now push this button…here, and put the tape in, and listen.” Dean gestures to a dusty knob on the top of the device. Cas inverts it and steps back, his fingers still poised like he’s working magic. A keyboard solo wafts from the machine rhythmically, bringing an odd sort of tremor with it, and Cas turns his head to look at Dean. They listen for a while.

_Now I believe in what you say_

_Is the undisputed truth_

_But I have to have things my own way_

_Just to keep me in my youth_

Dean looks back at him, and his green eyes flicker with specks of gold that Cas hadn’t noticed before, somehow.

_Like a ship without an anchor_

_Like a slave without a chain_

_Just the thought of those sweet ladies_

_Sends a shiver through my veins_

Dean seizes the angel’s waist and pulls him in close. Cas stumbles onto him, but Dean is soft, and so easy to fall into.

There’s an abrupt guitar chord, and just as abruptly Cas’s hands are around Dean’s neck, and Dean’s are hooked around his lower back - and the melody feels like it’s fogging Cas’s head like condensation on a cold day, but Dean is warm.

_And I will go on shining_

_Shining like brand new_

_I never look behind me, and my troubles will be few_

They’re stepping back in forth to the beat, their bodies clinging to each other in some kind of dance, and through a break in the lyrics Dean whispers _follow my lead_ , and Cas does.

_Goodbye stranger, it’s been nice_

_Hope you find your paradise_

_Tried to see your point of view_

_Hope your dreams will all come true_

It’s not long before Cas has memorized the tempo and the theory of the song. He lifts his head from between Dean’s neck and shoulder and makes eye contact with him, and his vision spasms down to his lips (a helpless accident), and he’s pretty sure that this individual sensation or anything like it has never been felt by any previous organism in any previous time or any previous place.

_Goodbye Mary, goodbye Jane_

_Will we ever meet again_

_Feel no sorrow, feel no shame_

_Come tomorrow, feel no pain_

They stop moving to kiss each other, sweet and chaste – Dean bending Cas over the crook of his arm and dipping him like a true gentleman – and they don’t stop until the song is long over and the smoke alarm goes off and fire sprinklers rain over them, and even then Dean still keeps one hand around Cas’s waist, like he can’t let go.

 

***

 

“Dean, these eggs are more burned than  _I_  was when I came out of the cage.”

“You get what you get, Sammy, and you don’t get upset, that’s what I always say.”

“Dean, this is _prison food_.”

“Well, Cas and I were…busy. Ain’t that right, Cas?” He winks.

Cas keeps his head down and his eyes on his plate, and smiling vaguely, hums _Goodbye Stranger._

**Author's Note:**

> Baby in a trenchcoat :,)


End file.
